


I Shook the Hand of Time and I Knew

by theshipsfirstmate



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, felicity smoak fic, post-5x04 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipsfirstmate/pseuds/theshipsfirstmate
Summary: Post-5x04. Because Felicity’s in trouble.
"She dreams of him in danger in the field and safe in their Ivy Town home, of happy memories they didn’t take time to savor and unfulfilled promises they never got to realize. Sometimes, she dreams simply that she’s lying in his arms, and when she wakes up next to someone else, she feels like a cheater."





	

_Title from “[I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DO5J-DtKldpE&t=YjVkMDk1ZjI3MGYxMzA0YTcyZDRjOGNlODlmYTBkNDdjODY0ZjhhOSxOd0ZUcWFjSw%3D%3D&b=t%3AiAw4tJIAalN1OvhWtUFPsQ&m=1)” by Colin Hay._

**I Shook the Hand of Time and I Knew**

She’s in trouble, but she doesn’t realize it right away.

She doesn’t realize it when her heart catches in her throat at Oliver’s questions about Rory. The way he looks at her, so earnest, so open, just short of asking if she’s OK, it makes Felicity wonder if there would be consequences were she to simply collapse into his arms, or if the only thing he’d do is hold her and gently brush away her tears, no questions asked.

There’s a part of her – buried down deep alongside the same instinct that sometimes finds her still fidgeting with her empty ring finger – that wants to do just that.

Oliver’s pensive gaze is pleading, but she knows he won’t actually press her too far, not out loud. He’s drawn that line back between them so easily, it’s almost like he never really erased it in the first place. The thought is another gut punch, but despite it, she’s almost ready to open up to him before Lyla walks in, ready to tell him the fears she’s been confiding in Curtis and the ones she can’t even say out loud. She _wants_ to tell him, to hear his soothing voice when he reassures her for the umpteenth that it’s not her fault. It doesn’t matter if she believes it, she just wants to hear him say it.

Still, that’s not when she realizes.

It’s definitely not when Oliver tells her he’s ready to sacrifice his freedom, his life, to save John against his wishes, just because he thinks he knows best. That feeling is nothing more than a knife of furious, terrified frustration that plunges into her chest, making it hard to breathe. Part of it, she knows, is genuine concern for her friend and the worry she saw etched across Lyla’s face. Part of it is her self-declared mission to ensure that John Jr. gets to grow up with a father, to make sure that sweet little boy gets the childhood that so many of them went without.

But it’s not Lyla’s face that Felicity sees when she closes her eyes and anxiously pinches the bridge of her nose. It’s not John she’s watched die, over and over again, in gruesome dreams that force her back to the waking world in a cold sweat that leaves her shivering for hours. And it’s not their adorable son that she worries about being able to live with himself.

Her day-to-day existence in the aftermath of Havenrock is nothing short of torturous. In her waking hours, Felicity thinks almost constantly of Rory, and his family, and the thousands of others that died by her hand. She’s looked at the satellite imagery of the city so much, she’s starting to memorize the street names. She knows the elementary school just three blocks from the blast site was in the middle of their spring pageant when the bomb hit, knows that the extensive medical tests are still just beginning for the residents of neighboring towns.

Then, at night, her subconscious takes over and she dreams, more often than not, of Oliver. She dreams of him in danger in the field and safe in their Ivy Town home, of happy memories they didn’t take time to savor and unfulfilled promises they never got to realize. Sometimes, she dreams simply that she’s lying in his arms, and when she wakes up next to someone else, she feels like a cheater. She understands what that means, and still, she doesn’t realize.

It’s not when she tries her best to brush away how wrong it feels to be running the mission for the new team without him. Something is off from the very beginning, and when she finally realizes that she’s waiting for Oliver’s voice to echo over the comm, she chastises herself for not being able to give her full attention to the danger at hand.

When Rene gets left behind, well, that’s just more blood on hands that are already stained dark red, more grief she’ll never tell him about. She’s certain now that they can’t do any of this without him, even more certain than she was than during his absence last year. What’s worse, she’s certain that _she_ can’t do this without him. But that’s not when she realizes, either.

It’s not when Oliver gets back to the bunker, and her body heaves a shuddering, relieved sigh without her permission. He’s corny and cocky and everything that rolls her eyes briefly to the back of her head as he makes his little superhero entrance, but he’s _alive_ and John is safe and for the moment, that’s all that matters. To this day, Felicity feels almost euphoric when he returns after a mission. It gets her every time, that feeling that washes over her, loosens the knots in her chest and her shoulders, allows her to breathe a little easier. She wonders if maybe she’s never really gotten over that night, two years ago, when she watched him walk out the door to his death.

But it’s not even that agonizing memory – the way she had believed him without question the first time he told her he loved her – that makes her realize. In fact, it’s not until later that night that she knows she’s really in trouble.

She returns home to the loft, and Billy’s already there, like he is most nights these days, feet kicked up on her coffee table as he flips through the DVR.

“Hey,” she calls absently, checking the mail on the side table before making her way over to him. “How was your day?”

“Uh…” He laughs a little absently, and something in the timbre of it makes her look up and fully focus on him. That’s when she focuses fully, realizing that his arm is in a sling, and there’s a bandage plastered across half of his forehead. “Not so great.”

“Oh my god, what happened?” Felicity rushes the rest of the way to the couch, taking a tentative seat beside him but keeping her hands to herself, for fear of hurting him further. “Are you okay?”

“Had a little scuffle with some arms dealers downtown,” Billy explains with a sheepish grin that assures her he’s really OK. “You should see the other guy.”

“Not funny.” She punches his good arm lightly and forces a laugh at his mock flinch, recovering quickly enough to fool him, but not herself. The shame burns its way through the pit of her stomach.

He’s a _cop_. A bona fide police detective. He puts himself in danger almost every day, and it’s not that Felicity _forgets_ that, exactly, but there’s something completely different in the way that peril registers as compared to the way she worries about Oliver. It’s not even the same emotion, really, but she hasn’t allowed herself to look too closely at the sliding scale.

She had hoped, desperately, that it was just a matter of time, that old feelings would fade as the new relationship blossomed. She’s cared about Oliver for the better part of five years now, worried about him as both a teammate and a woman in love (the latter for longer than she likes to admit, even still), so she knew it would take some distance, both emotional and physical.

But as the months wind on and the rift between her and Oliver grows, those feelings don’t seem to be going anywhere. If anything, her worry for him is amplified by their separation, magnified by the uncertainty of where he goes at night after they wrap up official business, by the unspoken and unanswered question of who, if anyone, is tending his physical and emotional wounds these days.

She’s not really sure which is more agonizing, the thought of Oliver dealing with it alone, or the idea of someone else by his side. She hates both ideations, all the while knowing they make her either a hypocrite or a liar.

She sleeps next to Billy that night – and it’s telling that, in her mind, it’s still the wrong side of the bed – but, as always, the scene that plays out in her head does not star her by-the-book boyfriend and his lawful heroics. Instead, she watches Oliver getting pinned down by military prison guards, making one too many dangerous moves and bleeding out before she can even figure out how to coordinate a rescue.

Felicity wakes with a start, breaths coming hard and fast. It’s only four a.m., but she knows from experience that trying to fall back to sleep will be a wasted effort so she sneaks from the bedroom, trying to stay quiet enough to keep Billy from stirring. She doesn’t want to lie, but there’s just no way to tell him the truth.

How do you tell the man you’re supposed to love that you dream of another at night? How do you tell him that it’s someone else’s livelihood that has the power to stop your world from turning?

She makes her way to the balcony and lets the early morning chill sink into her bones, remembering a time when she and Oliver stood out here together, watching over a city they’ve tried their hardest to save. This is where he told her he wanted to run for mayor, where they vowed to do things differently. This is where she let herself believe that their latest new beginning could be the first step of a long life together. 

A year later and she’s unmoored, eyes skimming across the rooftops without a conscious idea of what (or who) she’s looking for. She’s lost the job she took such pride in, walked away from the man she thought she would marry, and added tens of thousands of names to her unwritten ledger. And still, above every other worry that races through her overwrought psyche, there’s one face she’s seeing in her mind’s eye, one name she can almost taste on her lips. That’s when she knows for sure.

She’s in trouble.


End file.
